


As You Like It

by marxist_monke



Category: Castlevania (Cartoon)
Genre: And Sypha is not a trained Psychologist, F/M, Lots of Sex, Sex, Trevor Sucks at talking about his feelings, Warning: Talk of Violence to Animals, Warning:Talk of Child Sexual Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:00:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27912679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marxist_monke/pseuds/marxist_monke
Summary: It starts because he's attractive, and she likes him enough to be curious.He's way better at sex than she expected him to be, to the point where it's suspicious.
Relationships: Trevor Belmont/Sypha Belnades
Comments: 8
Kudos: 67





	As You Like It

As You Like It

The first time they fuck is good. Damn good. Sypha digs her fingers into Trevor’s shoulders and grinds down hard against him, the orgasm punching through her like lightning. She feels Trevor slow a moment later, and then carefully extricate himself. 

“Nngghh...that…” she trails off and flaps a hand at him. Trevor ghosts his lips over her forehead. 

“Had fun?” He asks. Sypha grins crookedly. 

“Mmmm.” 

He laughs as she reaches out lazily to pet the side of his cheek, missing and planting her hand against his mouth. Trevor catches her fingers and kisses each knuckle. He’s surprisingly tender. 

They’re laying in the grass, the horse blanket underneath them. She can smell loam and earth. The sun is warm on her skin. Sypha stretches, arching her back and taking pleasure in the sheer  _ joy  _ of being alive. 

“You didn’t finish?” She asks, after a moment. 

Trevor pauses his gentle massage of her scalp. 

“Because I’m not an idiot, Trevor Belmont. I have wards against pregnancy, I told you earlier.” 

Trevor’s large and calloused hands work their way from her scalp to her neck, easing tension. 

“Just not in the cards today.” He sounds effusive. Sypha opens her mouth to needle him and then closes it again. Sometimes men have issues in this department. There's no reason to shame him and she doesn’t want to give him performance anxiety for next time. 

Oh there’s going to be a next time. She hadn't expected him to be so damn good at that. 

***

The prophesied ‘next time’ is at an inn, two days later. The sheets are clean and warm, the room dimly lit. She can’t even hear the bustle downstairs, which speaks to the quality of the wall construction. 

“Oh Trevor!” She calls out. She’s shedding her clothes, dropping pieces of her robes haphazardly on the floor. Trevor looks up from where he’s arranging his throwing knives and stops abruptly. 

“Yes, Miss Belnades?” His voice has gone husky. His eyes on her are intense, tracking each small movement. She feels desired. Beautiful even. 

“I seem to have lost all my of clothes.” It’s her best approximation of a helpless milkmaid, but she probably sounds too smug. Sypha goes for bashful but can’t quite keep the toothy grin under control. 

“Well I’d best do something before you find them again.” Trevor abandons the knives and crosses the room in a stride. 

“Lay back on the bed?” He offers. She sits and he moves slowly, dropping to a knee like a knight swearing an oath of fealty. 

Sypha is actually swearing a moment later, his head between her legs. She buries her fingers in his hair. At first, she’s worried about tugging too hard, but then he groans against her clit, and she nearly fucking screams and hangs on to him for dear life

“There’s a good girl.” He mutters. She feels her toes curl almost painfully as his tongue licks firm lines against her cunt. 

“Fuck oh fuck.” She chants. He hums happily and shifts to press his mouth down against her clit. Her whole body clenches up and then her orgasm washes over her with force. Dreamily, in the throes of it, she imagines that this is what it feels like to get hit by an avalanche. 

He’s gently mouthing her thigh as she comes down. 

“You want to…?” Sypha not quite sure what she’s offering. Take off his clothes? Fuck her senseless again? One of those sounds good. 

He mouths at her cunt instead and she shifts her leg slightly in his grip. 

“Too much.” She mutters. Trevor eases back and lets out a gentle breath against her inner thigh. Sypha shivers. 

“Can I try something fun?” He asks. Sypha wiggles her hips. 

“I will be very mad if you do not.” She answers. 

“I want to see if I can make you forget your name.” He explains. His tone is very ‘matter o fact’. Sypha wrinkles her delicate nose at him. 

“I am a Speaker and! I have twice, twice mind you, won the oral recitation contest-“ 

Trevor nibbles gently at her thigh. Sypha squirms trying to find friction. 

Oh damn, he  _ is  _ good at this. She  _ can _ come twice in short succession but it’s tricky and usually requires that she do a good deal of planning. 

“Very impressive.” His voice is muffled between her thighs. “Now let me work, woman.” 

He’s careful to only gently mouth around the wet folds, cautious of painful overstimulation. He waits until Sypha writhing impatiently against the mattress, pushing her hips up in frustration. 

Sypha gasps as he grabs her by the hips and pulls her to the edge of the bed. Trevor resettles her thighs on his shoulders and puts his mouth around her clit and sucks gently. Sypha groans. 

This time the orgasm builds, cresting waves rocking throughout her body and relaxing every muscle the first orgasm had tightened. She feels boneless. 

Sypha comes to, to Trevor pulling a blanket over her. He steps back from the bed a moment to strip down to his small clothes and then crawls under the covers. 

“I’m not gonna be much fun.” She grumbles at him. “I’m all sleepy now.” 

Trevor presses a soft kiss to her cheek. 

“Then sleep.” He answers.

*** 

Sypha loves puzzles. She loves the feel of something just out of reach that forces her to stretch her mind, like standing on the tips of her toes to reach a high shelf. She’s got a knack for riddles and logic problems. She’s observant. So it’s a bit embarrassing that it takes her over a dozen times to pick up on this. 

They’ve fucked in the cart, against an alleyway wall, in the fresh meadow grass with her riding him into the dirt. They’ve gone slow, rocking against each other in a natural pool of hot water by moonlight. 

But there’s a pattern to it. He never approaches her first. She probably should have noticed that one earlier, but Sypha knows she’s got a glutton’s appetite for good sex, and had worn out every previous paramour. But while Trevor is always ready to go when she beckons, he never goes first. 

That alone isn’t concerning, but it’s a fragment of a larger, more concerning whole; he generally seems uninterested in his own pleasure. When she reaches over to tug him off, he’ll let her get a few strokes in before he’s catching her hand and pressing his fingers against her clit. Sypha’s gone to her knees to take him in her mouth once (a bit intimidating, he’s not a small man) but he’d followed her to the ground and put his mouth to her breasts, supporting her in his warm arms as she’d moaned throatily. Trevor has come only twice in their escapades so she knows it’s not that he can’t.

Sypha frowns and shakes her head fiercely. Her blonde curls bounce about her face. Forcibly throws off the doubt that she’s the problem. That is nonsense. 

It's tricky to figure out how to talk to him about this. Maybe it is a medical problem of some kind? If it is, she doesn’t want to shame him for it. Trevor seems confident in his masculinity, but Sypha’s experience is that there’s no faster way to challenge that than to insult a man’s dick. 

She’ll just have to be very insistent that they make the next time about him. She can gather information that way and make her next move. Sypha claps her hands. This will be fun! 

*** 

Her plan falls apart when he turns her surprising him naked into the chance for a massage. This is usually how it goes- she means to get him off, honestly has the best of intentions, and then he distracts her. Right now he’s distracting her with gentle pressure against her instep. 

“Oooh you could charge a pretty penny for this, Trevor Belmont.” Sypha groans out. His fingers pause for the briefest of seconds and then he laughs. It’s a bit too loud. 

“I’ll have to start advertising. Our business model will get very complex; monster hunting, prostitution, seeing as I’m already excommunicated maybe I can pick up usury-“ 

But Sypha knows a deflection when she hears one. 

“Trevor.” She pulls her foot out of his hands. Tries to catch his eyes, but he’s looking at the fire, not at her. 

“Have you paid for sex?” 

He snorts. 

“Anytime I’ve had money, I drank it. Why take an hour finding a whore and a bed and checking for pox when buying a bottle only takes a minute?”

Sypha frowns at that. Looks him over, in the firelight. He’d practically spat the word “whore” like it was unclean in his mouth. Kind of surprising actually, he’s been amicable with the prostitutes they’ve met, had even pronounced “laying is a more honest way to make a living than lording”. 

She tries again. Tries to keep her voice nonjudgemental, her tone even. It comes out more tentative than she’s intending. 

“Have you been paid for sex?” 

His head whips around and his blues eyes meet her. They’re back in Gresit then, complete strangers. No, worse. This is the look he’d given the priests, never her. 

“We’re not having this conversation.” The hostility is palpable. 

“Trevor, it’s not-“ she reaches for him. He rolls back onto his heels and stands up in a fluid motion. Pauses. Grabs his cloak. 

“Need to take a piss.” He grunts. 

Sypha sighs, watching him retreat. She considers going after him, then abandons the thought. It will be like trying to shoe a horse that’s been spooked. Better to let him calm down and try again later. She settles in to wait. 

*** 

Dawn brings light and the cacophony of the forest in the morning. An angry squirrel goes to war with its neighbor and a jackdaw screams in complaint. 

At some point in the night, he must have stumbled back into camp, because Sypha wakes up with his cloak around her shoulders and a grain sack pillowing her head. He’s passed out on the other side of the smoldering campfire. Smelling like hard alcohol. Lovely. 

She packs up camp by herself, feeds and harnesses the ponies, then hitches them to the cart. 

“Rise and shine, Treffy.” She hopes the nickname will get a response. Trevor just groans and presses a hand to his temple as he rejoins the world of the living. 

“Think I drank too much.” He manages to get out, before puking at her feet. Sypha grimaces. 

“Ah, I’m happy to see you’re thinking. There’s a first time for everything.” If teasing won’t get to him, maybe mocking will. 

But Trevor just picks himself up off the ground, squinting at the light. He makes his way over to the cart and plonks into the bed of it. Throws an arm over his eyes. 

So it’s going to be that kind of day. 

***

It turns out it’s going to be that kind of week, in fact. When Trevor had pronounced that he’d “drank too much”, much to Sypha’s horror, the proclemation had not been about health but rather about the now absence of liquor. Without the grain alcohol to hide behind, he’s distant and business-like. All conversation is redirected to their current position on the map, or the last know location of the remnants of Dracula’s horde. She tries a few times though. 

“The other night, I want you to know that Speakers don’t pass judgments like rooted folks do. A persons’ choices are theirs to make.” 

“Don’t remember. Had too much to drink. Think we’re a day out from Oblensk?”

When she beckons him to lean down his shaggy head for a kiss later, he pulls away. 

“Could use some meat for dinner. Be back before nightfall.”

Trevor lopes off into the woods again.

Sypha sits by the fire and Speaks, practicing her craft alone in the woods. She tells a story from her own childhood. She’d been a small girl when a scrappy little terrier had started following the caravan. Sypha had slipped it treats now and then, and eventually the bitch had allowed her to pet the velvety fur behind her ears. 

A cartwheel had crushed the dog’s hind leg, and Sypha had rushed forward to tend to it- a dog could live with three legs after all. In pain and fear, the terrier had lashed out, biting her. She’d stayed with the dog for hours, trying to get close. Her grandfather had eventually given up trying to get her to come inside and instead brought out a blanket. 

When she’d awoken the next morning, the little dog’s body was cold. 

Sypha finishes the recitation. Lets the pain burn, not fresh like when she’d been a child but still present. A lesson to learn from. Her grandfather had said it well illustrated that all the well-meaning in the world could not save someone who did not want to be saved. 

“But I took it to mean not to let my compassion die. Because the little dog didn’t die alone. And for a time she knew warm food and a kind hand.” 

Sypha does not hear him step out of the brush, but Trevor makes his presence known by dropping two pheasants in front of the fire. 

“I had a hunting dog whose back got kicked in by a horse when I was a boy.” He’d caught the end of her story. “He was a friendly little guy. Even crying, he was licking my hands. I wanted to keep him as a lap dog.” 

“And did you?” Sypha asks. 

“God no.” Trevor settles to the ground and begins field dressing the pheasants. “Da said there’s no point in letting a good beast suffer a slow death. Took his head off with an ax- mutt probably didn’t even feel it.” 

There’s a wet snap as Trevor pulls out the pheasant’s spine with a practiced jerk. 

“It was the right call. Poor thing was done the moment the horse kicked it. I just didn’t know it yet.”

They eat in silence that night. 

*** 

She gets frustrated with him in Oblensk. They’ve spent the whole day in the sewers, hunting down a were-rat colony for fucks sake. Sypha had been covered in some kind of unnamed gloop when the Morningstar and splattered it across the subterranean sewer walls. On the march back, she practically pins him to a wall. 

“Stop making this tedious!” She snaps. “I’m gross, and tired, and I’m sick of sleeping alone and being horny all the time when you’re right there!”

He blinks at her, seemingly exhausted. He’d taken the brunt of the physical abuse, having been slammed against several columns. 

“Oh. Why didn’t you say so earlier?” Trevor kisses her, soft and gentle. Sypha sighs and practically seeps into his arms. They can work from here. This is better. 

He works light kisses along her neck, then rubs small circles against the tense spot between her shoulder blades. A large hand cups her breast through the fabric of her robes. Sypha practically hums contentedly against his mouth. A hand trails his downwards, to the edges of her skirt. Cool air against her thigh as he lifts an edge high enough to get a hand under. Then warm fingers. 

“Ooooh… we really shouldn’t. I feel gross. You’re covered in slime.” 

Trevor's hand stills against the damp linen between her legs, just tracing the line where it clings to her skin. 

“D'you want me to stop?” He asks, then traces her neck with his teeth. Oh, now that’s just unfair. 

“If you stop I will set your hair on fire, Trevor.” She warns him, panting.

His fingers make quick work of the linen, slipping beneath to run against the soft patch of curls between her legs. He follows the wet folds with rough fingertips, cautious not to apply too much direct pressure to the sensitive nub. Sypha mewls. He learns so quickly what she likes and doesn’t. It doesn’t take too long before she’s groaning in earnest, unconcerned about how sound carries in the subterranean caves. 

He slips a finger inside her and curls it just so, rubbing against the tiny little rough spot within. Sypha’s knees go weak, and Trevor runs his other arm around her waist, steadying her. 

His palm presses against her clit, giving her sweet friction. He fucks her slowly with his fingers until she sees colors behind her closed eyelids. She pitches forward against him as she comes. Then rests there against his chest, one strong arm keeping her upright, the other resettling her clothing. 

“Mmmm. That was nice. Let’s not fight, okay?” Sypha asks him sweetly. Against her, Trevor lets out a long sigh. 

“Yeah.”His voice sounds hollow. “Okay.” 

He sleeps pressed against her at the inn that night, but there might as well be a canyon between them. 

*** 

One moment Trevor is wading through the river ahead of her, the next he’s under. At first, she isn’t certain what’s happened. Had he just tripped, or found an unusually deep hole in the river bed? The water is running too quickly for her to see him. 

The next second his head breaks the surface just long enough for Sypha to get a glimpse of brown hair and a webbed paw. 

Monster. 

In her mind’s eye, the book opens and it’s her grandfather’s voice reading the spell aloud. 

_ “Part the Waters. A spell first scribed by Aaron, brother to Moses. While the spell has a divine origin, it can be cast by a mage who draws on the power of the elements. The somatic components include inscribing three Enochian signs upon the air, and a piece of wood planted in the ground before the body of water. Be wary- waters are pushed and pulled by powerful forces, and any magus attempting to hold the motion of water in place for more than a few moments can find their life force sapped away by the forces they work against.  _

Wood. A stick- she pulled one to her hand with a gust of wind and sinks it into the earth before her. She scribes the hieroglyphs in to the air before her, changing the aspects of the final sigil to fit “River” instead of “Ocean”. 

The river ripples and splits, power thrumming through the ground. Trevor is locked in a wrestling match with.. a frogman, perhaps. 

“Vodyanoy!” He shouts at her, like that should mean something. Sypha summons ice to her hands and prepares to throw, looking for an opening. 

Trevor plants a foot into the mud and twists his hips. With a jerk, the frog-thing comes crashing down into the mud. 

“Holy symbol!” He yells. Ah. A minor illusion is child’s play- Sypha breaths out, twisting the air to capture the sun’s light into the first religious symbol she can think of. A crescent moon hangs golden in the air above them. 

The creature- Vodyanoy-shrieks and cowers. Trevor’s whip sounds like a thousand glass bottles shattering at once, as he draws and hurls the chain above them, to bring it down with a sharp twist, cocooning the creature in holy chains. The howl it makes sends a roll of nausea through her. 

“Trevor I can’t hold the river!” She calls. He twists mid dash, changing direction to head towards her. 

“Let it loose!” He answers, sprinting over submerged bits of river bed like a hare with a wolf behind it. 

She takes a deep breath and can feel the power of the spell eating away at the edges of her vision. Trusts him to know his own skills and limits. Leans forward and knocks loose the stick binding the spell. 

He makes it to her just as the waters come crashing down, and throws the butt of his whip around a nearby evergreen. Sypha follows, grabbing him by the sleeve and then wrapping them both in a shield of golden wind as the flood of the river comes tumbling over its banks. There’s nothing to do but cling to each other as the sheer force of nature rips away the ground around them. Sypha buries her head against his shoulder and holds on for dear life. 

The thundering stops. The water recedes. Sypha shrugs off the spell keeping them safe, in the way a lady might shrug off a heavy cloak. She feels his arms around her tighten briefly, then let her go. Nearby the Morning Star has dug heavy gouges into the trunk of the tree it had been wrapped around, but the binding had held. The chain leads down into the still frothing water of the river. Trevors trods over and hauls on it, looking for all the world like an angler reeling in a catch. 

“What?” She asks, gesturing. “Why?”

“Vodyanoy.” Trevor says by way of explanation. He shrugs sheepishly upon seeing her befuddled expression. 

“I keep forgetting you didn’t grow up in Wallachia. They’re like a local river god. They eat cattle and children, but they also control flooding and irrigation.”

“And?” She prompts. Trevor leans on the chain, dragging the creature to the surface. 

“I’m going to strike a deal with it.” He explains. 

“Doom shall befall you mortal!” It roars, in a voice like gravel. “For I am Grigorev the Bone Eater and I lay a curse upon you! Release me and I shall show mercy!” 

Trevor grins. 

“Hello Grigorev. This is Sypha Belnades. I’m Trevor Belmont. It’s a pleasure.”

The creature blinks it’s massive froggy eyes. 

“Belmont?” It asks, sounding much less ferocious. 

Trevor nods. 

“Ah. When I say ‘Bone Eater’, I should clarify that it is only deer bones.” 

Trevor snorts and sits down on one of the large rocks that line the river bank. He’s sopping wet and beginning to shiver. 

“And you attacked me because of my impressive antlers and charming little tail, right?” He asks as he strips out of the drenched shirt and wrings it out. Sypha takes the chance to admire the fine lines of his back and shoulders. 

“Yes! Yes, wait no! No, it didn’t mean it!” The Vodyanoy doesn't seem particularly clever and has been made all the stupider in it’s panic. 

“Relax, Grigorev. I’m not going to kill you.” Trevor pulls off a shoe- several pondweeds and a small fish come tumbling out. Trevor picks up the fish and tosses it back into the river. 

“Provided you’re willing to make a deal.” 

Grigorev nods rapidly, to the point where Sypha is impressed it hasn’t made itself dizzy. 

“So here are the terms- you provide faithful and calm waters for the villagers and don’t cause them any trouble. In return, you keep your head on your shoulders. Sounds fair? Let’s shake on it.”

“Wait just a moment.” Sypha straightens from where she’d been leaning against a tree and watching this play out. She may not know much about this particular creature, but she knows deals and contracts fairly well. 

“In addition to not molesting the villagers, you shall leave their livestock alone. And you shall not harm a single human that crosses your waters unless they seek to harm you. The same for their cattle and property. And you shall not take retribution against Trevor or myself for forcing this deal upon you.”

Grigorev glares at her. Trevor laughs. 

“Who are you, little woman, to make demands of Grigorev? Belmont do you let your woman speak for you?” The frog creature grumbles. 

Trevor gives it a pitying look. 

“I am a Magician of the Speakers, and if you speak to me like that again  _ I will break the banks of your river into a thousand streams until the bed is dry and you are dust. _ ” Sypha doesn’t mean to punctuate her words with a crackle of thunder and the whip of wind about her hair and clothes, but the wind always comes to her beck and call when she’s angry. Of all the elements, she’d compare it most to a hunting bird, eager to be about its work.

“I’m adding ‘And answer with kindness to any lady who comes seeking your aid in plight’ to the contract, along with what she said. Now, do you want to shake on it, or shall I hand you over to the little woman?” Trevor prods. 

***

“You know the little river god was actually not that awful in the end.” Sypha muses, taking a slurp of the river mussels stew. Grigorev had been all too willing to fish them up a dinner and had even offered Sypha a bracelet of water-rounded stones. 

“You always say that once you terrify them into good behavior.” Trevor teases. 

“Oh let me guess, present company notwithstanding?” She needles back. “You don’t find me scary, Treffy?” 

He makes a face like he’d just suckled on a lemon. 

“What? Is my behavior not good enough? I just took a bath, My fair lady Belnades. Shall I fetch you some grapes and peel them as well, mistress? Should I be plying you with poetry and roses?”

She laughs at him. He laughs too. The summer air is almost cloyingly warm. Cicadas sing to each other in the night. The scent of some unnamed flower hangs in the air, and their bellies are full. Sypha reaches a foot out to nudge him in the thigh.

“Trevor.” She says softly. He looks up from his cup and manages a rough swallow. 

“Oh I know that look. You are insatiable, woman. Tell me, is there a succubus somewhere in the Belnades family tree?”

He’s impossibly handsome in the dim light; rugged edges and broad lines. The firelight is painting him in beautiful auburn and gold. She thinks he could be the main character in a play about a dashing pirate or roguish highwayman. Probably something bawdy.

“No. I just want to talk.” She answers, her voice gentle. Trevor watches her intently, his gaze shifting from relaxed to guarded in an instant. 

“I’m not going to judge you. I just want to understand. And maybe to help.”

Trevor sighs into his cup. Tilts his head down and now she can’t make out his eyes.

“A while back, you said a person's choices were theirs to make.” His voice is quiet and atonal. “It wasn’t much of a choice. It was starve or fuck. And once I was filthy from it I figured I might as well roll in the muck with a full stomach.”

She reaches out to him. Presses a warm hand against his forearm. Then he pulls away. 

“I’m really not drunk enough for this.” He explains and starts to make his way to his feet. Sypha gets to hers first and crowds him, catching his face in her two small hands. His scruff is prickly against her palms. 

“Talk to me, Trevor. Please.” 

She thinks he’s going to pull away again. He steps back and she nearly balls up her fists to scream- this is like trying to thread a needle as a patient bleeds out on the table. She’s in over her head with him and all his hurt. 

“I think I was about fourteen? It was the winter after the house burnt.” He’s fishing a bottle out of his pack. Sypha thinks to stop him and then lets it go. 

“Interesting thing about whoring- men are more likely customers than women. You really don't get any female customers until you’re about sixteen and your shoulders broaden out a bit. And priests are the most likely customer, though nothing those sick fucks do really surprises me. Though you can do anything if you’re drunk enough. Liquor really deadens the gag reflex.”

Trevor takes a long drink from the bottle and resettles himself on the ground, pulling the furred cloak around his shoulders like a shield. 

“That’s why...I only know two ways to fuck, Sypha. Hard and fast against an outhouse wall, like relieving an itch. And the way you fuck a customer- it’s all about them. Their pleasure, cause maybe they’ll ask you to come around again or you’ll get a tip. I’m not going to treat you like a flea bite so…” he trails off. 

Sypha sinks slowly to her knees next to him. 

“Can I hold you?” She asks. He’s silent for a moment. Then a nod. Sypha loops her arms around his shoulders the way she’d hug a young child. He’s stiff as a board at first, but then slowly melts into her grip. She runs her fingers through his shaggy brown hair. 

“I think I understand a lot of things now.” She speaks slowly and holds him against her chest. Stupid, beautiful man. If anyone ever tries to hurt him like this again, she’ll end them in fire and ice.

“Figured you would eventually.” His voice is muffled. “Tried to keep it a secret for as long as I could, but you’re too smart. Had fun for a bit though, nice while it lasted. I promise not to tell anyone.” He shifts to pull away. Sypha sinks her fingers in deep, grabbing on to his cloak and his hair, pulling his face around to  _ look her in the goddamn eye _ . 

“Trevor you were a child.” She hisses. Then catches herself. It’s not him she’s angry at. “I will never judge you for what you had to do to survive. I am thankful that you did so, to be here with me now.” She kisses his brow gently and he looks up at her, eyes wet with unshed tears.

“Stay with me here tonight?” He asks, his voice small. 

“Yes.” She reassures him. “Yes, of course.” 

He falls asleep in her lap. 

***

Sypha wakes up with a crick in her neck the next morning, to Trevor packing up the campsite. He’s mostly done by the time she makes it to her feet, just finishing up with brushing the ponies and checking over their feet. 

He wordlessly hands her a warmed slice of rye and a mug of willow bark tea. Sypha slurps gratefully at the tea and plants a sloppy kiss on his cheek before he can get awkward again. Trevor freezes briefly and then smiles sheepishly. 

They set off in the cart with her still eating breakfast and drinking tea. Trevor breaks out the hard cheese and sections out bits with a knife.

“Speakers don’t pass judgment for prostitution the way rooted folks do.” She tells him, by way of explanation. Trevor chokes on the block of cheese he’d been eating. 

Is that a cumulo-nimbus cloud on the horizon line? Oh, they might have a thunderstorm soon. That will be wonderful, she’s been meaning to work on her command of lightning. 

Sypha slaps him on the back until he manages to swallow. 

“It’s honest work after all, and if there is a judgment to be passed it is on those we create the demand, not those who provide it. But mostly, it’s seen as providing companionship to those who could otherwise not have it- providing everyone involved is an adult, of course.”

“If all that’s true, why do I feel dirty?” Trevor asks after a long pause.

“Dirty? Because people used you. Being used always feels awful. You’re not dirty.” She tugs on his nose playfully and silently promises to put an end to that running joke. “You can’t be dirty Trevor Belmont, you got dunked in a river just yesterday. He laughs softly. It’s a start. 

***

They spend the next four days hunting down a family of Bauk that’s been plaguing the ferrymen along the banks of the Volga. Trevor eventually finds the nest by following the faintest of trails Sypha doesn’t even think is there, until they reach the cave mouth. The fight is easy- Bauk’s are banished by light and loud noise, something a Magician can summon in spades.

The children they took are bruised, but alive. Overjoyed, Trevor grabs her by her robes and plants a messy kiss across her mouth. 

“Sorry,” he says.

“Well you should be!” Sypha answers, with fake outrage. “Not in front of the children Trevor! What will their mothers think?”

Returning with dead Bauk heads and living children earn them a place in the Bergermiester’s large manor-home for the night and a hearty supper. Trevor drinks his fill of warm beer and Sypha sips at a very good wine while the Bergermiester’s nine children beg her for monster stories. Trevor slips the dogs bits of sausage under the table. 

“Bed!” Their mother eventually commands as the candles burn low. Trevor has given up pretenses now and one of the dogs is fully asleep in his lap, legs twitching as it chases after a dream rabbit. 

The children groan but make their way up the stairs. 

“We should do the same,” Sypha tells him. Trevor blinks blearily up at her, half-asleep himself. 

“But the dog.” he gestures. “You’re supposed to let them lie when they’re asleep.” 

Sypha snorts at that and gently removes the snoozing hound. 

“Come. Bedtime, hero.” He follows her, slipping an arm around her waist. 

“Scandal!” She teases. 

Trevor pulls the heavy oak door shut behind him. 

“I’ll show you scandal.” He pronounces.  “How thick do you think these walls are?” 

He kisses her languidly like they’ve got all the time in the world. She can taste the wheat beer on his breath and catch his scent- earthy, a hint of musk, leather, and smoke. 

One of his hands slips down from her waist to grasp firmly at her ass, then hauls her up against the wall. She wraps her legs around his hips, steadying herself, and he sets to work on her robes, all the while worrying her neck with his mouth. Heat pools between her legs. 

“Wait.” She orders. Trevor goes still against her. 

“This isn’t about just me.” She tells him. Fumbles around in the candlelight for his chin, turning his face to meet hers. He looks worried- like he’s expecting her to say he’s done something wrong. 

“I want you to undress for me.” She tells him. Trevor frowns. 

“You trust me, right?” Sypha reminds him. Trevor nods and steps back, letting her down. Sypha sits on the bed, legs crossed. 

He’s almost shy at first, actually stopping to badly fold his tunic. She giggles at him. He hits her in the face with his shirt. 

“This isn’t a performance,” he announces, haughtily. 

“Definitely not.” She agrees. “No juggling. You’re not even dancing.” 

They don’t end up having sex that night. He lays naked in the bed while she kisses him all over, making special note of the little areas that have him gasping and the ticklish spot under his fourth rib that gets him to squirm. Sypha also pays attention to the scars- he’s a tapestry of them; some white, some angry red, others dimples of missing flesh or raised lines. 

“Lashing.” He says casually when she finds the lines on his back. “Crimes of indecency against the church I think?” Sypha shudders. 

There’s a bite on his ass. It can’t be anything else. 

“Vukodlak. Please don’t make me tell you that story, all you need to know is that it ends with me sitting with my ass in the air in an apothecary's while they stitched me up.”

She traces the one over his eye. He catches her hand and kisses it, but says nothing. There are some that he won’t talk about yet, and some he might not talk about ever. 

“If you're determined to find them all we’re going to be at this a while.” He’s deflecting again. Sypha gives him a long, slow kiss. 

“I like to do extensive research.” She reassures him. “So get comfortable.” 

***

They spend the next few weeks getting to know each other’s bodies again. Trevor had spent so much time, in the beginning, distracting her that she’d never really gotten the chance to learn him. She’d only gotten vague impressions of muscle and tan skin. Now she gets the fuller picture of freckles and scars and dark hair, of hitched breaths and plaintive moans. 

She also learns what he likes. It takes a great deal of coaxing and cajoling to make their sex about them, rather than just her, but while Sypha is not good at being patient she is an absolute terrier once she’s gotten her teeth into something. 

“I am not taking off a single piece of clothing until you tell me one new thing you want to try.” She commands, more than once. He’s tentative at first- her on top if she doesn’t mind? She’s eager with each new thing she wants to try and vocal about what she doesn’t. When it really clicks that she won't budge on boundaries just to please him, and won’t leave him if he doesn’t spend the entire night completely focused on her, he grows bolder. 

“I don’t want you to take off an inch of clothing. I want to fuck you from behind against this wall. I want you to put your teeth into my hand from trying not to wake up everyone in this tavern.” He growls against her ear. Her knees go weak just from that, and, later, she’s furiously working her hand between her legs as he fucks her hard and fast. He comes first with a muffled groan against her shoulder and she follows him seconds after, the heat and swell of him inside her tipping her over the edge into a shuddering orgasm.

It all really clicks into place when they’re fumbling awkwardly in the grass together one night. His hand slips out from under him and he accidentally sprawls on her face. She knees him in the balls reflexively. 

After several long gasps for breath and Sypha hurriedly alternating between trying to help with ice “No, Christ’s sake woman do not freeze off my balls!” and heat “Burning them is no better! Back!”, they settle on to the horse blanket, romance put on hold for the time being.

“I’ve lost my rakish charm.” Trevor mutters. “You’re going to leave me now that I’m not mysterious and sexy anymore.” 

Sypha sits up on an elbow and presses a forefinger against his nose.

“Ha! You think you were ever mysterious, Trevor Belmont? I've read children’s books with greater mystery.” She blows a raspberry at him. “Besides I prefer you this way. It doesn’t feel like you’re putting on a performance.” 

Trevor sits up slowly, wincing a bit. He moves carefully, cupping her cheeks in his hands. He places a chaste kiss on her lips, at odds with their current state of undress. They fall asleep under the stars, with only a blanket and each other’s skin against them. 

In the morning, Trevor gathers her up in his arms and presses their foreheads together.

“I want to go on a million adventures with you. I want to put holes in my shoes and then buy new ones. I want to go wherever you go, if you’ll have me.”

He’ll follow her to hell and lay siege at its gates if she asks. Sypha has gripped a storm in her palms, but never a heart. It’s a delicate, powerful thing. It’s only fair if she gives him one in return. 

“I’ll have you. In the wagon, or the grass?” She offers. His laugh is deep and clear. 

**Author's Note:**

> The title, taken from Shakespeare's Play, is meant as a direct reference to the famous "All the World's a Stage, and all the men and women Players" that probably predates Shakespeare by a lot. Apologies if, rather than steamy, the sex scenes were just badly written dribble. They were supposed to serve the purpose of underlining a harmful eagerness to please rather than be about HAWT STEAMY FUCK FUCK, but I wanted to put a bit of that in there too, as I like good smut. Also, they're energetic young folk in their 20s, so...
> 
> Please let me know if I've hit the themes I was going for here or utterly failed them. 
> 
> Also, sex work is real work, you can fucking fight me on this.  
> Also, men can be victims of sexual abuse perpetrated by both men and women, you can fight me on this one too.


End file.
